


Say Please

by lucabee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, PWP, Rough Sex, apparently i'm a pervert, really there's no point other than the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 06:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucabee/pseuds/lucabee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feuilly barely even remembers saying it. Bahorel reminds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Please

**Author's Note:**

> Feuilly is my favorite and he has shamefully few fics, so I thought I would lend a hand. Because porn is apparently how I de-stress. It could be worse.  
> My characterizations are rather shamelessly stolen from villainyandgoodcheekbones's Trenchcoat Brigade series (go read it, it's so good), so many thanks for letting me play with them.  
> Unbeta'd, so please do point any mistakes out to me.  
> 

Feuilly barely even remembers saying it. He’s having a shit day because he got called into work on his _one day off_ and he’d gone, despite Bahorel threatening to punch both him and his slave-driving manager because Bahorel had already covered the last two grocery runs. Knowing he desperately needs the money doesn’t make having to scrape paint out of his hair _fucking_ _again_ any less annoying.

He’s leaning on the railing of their tiny metal balcony, absently flinging blue flakes into the street as he chain smokes. It’s his last pack and it’s running low, so he thinks nothing of it when he slaps Grantaire’s thieving hand away from his pocket – _for the third time that day –_ and snaps, “say please.”

Grantaire just grins and reaches for the pack again, saying, “Ooh, I love it when they’re feisty.”

Feuilly slaps him again and says, “Bite me, fuckface,” just on principle, but lets him bum a _fourth cigarette_ and ignores Grantaire snapping his teeth suggestively.

Honestly, Feuilly doesn’t even know how Bahorel heard. Their balcony is a squeeze even for two, and the door had been shut against the wind. But somehow or other, he had heard.

 

Bahorel makes mac and cheese from a box once Grantaire leaves for work, while Feuilly runs to the corner store for a six pack (house rule is you do the work if you aren’t paying, which usually translates to Feuilly doing the grocery and beer runs. Whatever, he can smoke and walk). It starts raining on the way back and he didn’t bring a coat, so he comes back shivering with an arm full of wet cardboard. Bahorel whistles when he drops the beers on the kitchen counter.

“Looks like someone threw the fox in a river.”

“I’ll throw your corpse in a river,” he replies, already peeling off his wet clothing on the way to the bedroom.

He comes back in one of Bahorel’s mammoth t-shirts and his boxers, wanting nothing more than food and booze and TV. He reaches for the plate Bahorel is offering him, already thinking of wrapping himself up in the big downy blanket on the couch – but the plate is gone.

Bahorel is smirking at him and holding it just out of his reach, because apparently he’s decided to be a complete dick tonight. He _refuses_ to jump for it (this is not the first time Bahorel has used his height to his advantage, and Feuilly learned long ago that resistance just makes him look stupid) so he stares back and says, “What the fuck?”

Bahorel’s grin could rival Mephistopheles’ as he says,

“Say please.”

“I’ll fucking punch you.”

“No you wont, I’m holding your food.”

Which is a good point, so Feuilly stomps on his bare foot instead and snags his plate when Bahorel contracts in pain. Bahorel is still swearing as he turns on his heel and stalks out of the kitchen, taking the beer with him. He doesn’t share his blanket.

 

They end up sprawled on the couch, blanket discarded along with the empty plates and beer bottles on the floor; the furnace of Bahorel’s bare chest does a much better job melting the chill out of Feuilly’s bones than any blanket ever could. Bahorel’s got one hand carding through Feuilly’s damp hair, the other in control of the remote so he can fast-forward through any scenes that don’t feature his beloved Khaleesi. He’s trying to learn Dothraki; this is ‘research’.

“You do realize the internet exists, right?”

“Nothing like learning from native speakers.”

“You’re an idiot. And you’ve already memorized all this shit.”

“Never hurts to practice.”

Feuilly snorts derisively.

“Admit it, you just want to stare at Drogo’s ass.”

“Don’t be jealous, shekh ma shieraki anni.”

“I am not your Khaleesi, you motherfucker.”

“The last of the great foxes,” Bahorel teases, tugging on his hair. He laughs and snakes a huge arm around Feuilly to pin his arms when he tries to jam his elbow into Bahorel’s ribs. Feuilly wiggles and kicks, and the Dothraki horde are forgotten in favor of wrestling until they fall off the couch. Then it seems only reasonable for Bahorel to pick Feuilly up and carry him squirming into the bedroom.

He throws him on the mattress so hard he bounces, following him down before Feuilly can get his legs up for a kick to the groin. He kisses Feuilly hard, fingers twisted in ginger hair as Feuilly struggles with their clothes. He doesn’t let go until Feuilly’s got his shirt worked up to his arms, tugging so hard it’s either move back or loose a nose.

He sits back, straddling Feuilly’s stomach, and uses the temporary space to get his pants unzipped as Feuilly strips off his own shirt.

There’s a single moment when he looks away from Feuilly to coordinate his belt buckle– a rookie mistake. Feuilly bucks up, hard, and takes advantage of Bahorel’s temporary imbalance to roll them over. For a second he leans down and presses Bahorel’s shoulders into the sheets, and then he’s sliding backwards off the bed and taking Bahorel’s pants with him. Bahorel just lays there and watches as he does an extremely ungraceful one-footed hop out of his own pants at the foot of the bed. And then he’s back, crawling up the bed on all fours, and Bahorel thinks they should make a new house rule that Feuilly has to do everything naked from now on.

He looks amazing like this, lithe muscles twisting under pale skin as he supports himself on his arms. He’s flushed all the way down his neck and chest, freckles almost lost under the warm glow of sex and alcohol. He keeps his eyes on Bahorel’s, focused and predatory as he leans in to devour him.

Bahorel gets a hand back in his hair and growls, “woof.”

“That’s not sexy, asshole,” he mutters, kissing Bahorel anyways.

“Mmmm. But you are.”

“Fuck you.”

Bahorel’s only response is to flip them again, one hand on Feuilly’s ass and the other digging in the bedside drawer, which shuts Feuilly up nicely. As long as no one counts _fuck_ and _shit_ and _jesuschristthere_ as words, which Bahorel doesn’t.

Feuilly is fucking lost in it, eyes closed and Bahorel’s mouth hot on his neck, hissing at the burn of three fingers too fast but that’s how he likes it. He twists, pushing back against Bahorel’s hand because he’s ready, so ready.

Bahorel sucks a bruise to his throat and Feuilly pants, “Fuck, yes, Bahorel, come on, fuck me,” whining at the emptiness as the fingers are suddenly gone –

And then so is the hot weight of Bahorel above him.

Feuilly cracks his eyes open to see Bahorel grinning at him from the foot of the bed, sitting back on his heels, very consciously _not making any move to touch him_.

“What the fuck.”

“Say please.”

Bahorel catches the foot Feuilly aims at his groin easily, holding his ankle up and away from his body in a grip Feuilly can’t shake. Feuilly knows better than to give him the other foot, just props himself up on his forearms and glares at the Neanderthal in his – their? – bed.

“Go fuck yourself, asshole.”

“That wouldn’t be nearly as fun, for either of us.”

He pins the leg in his grip to the bed and gets a hand on the other knee to keep it away from his ribs as he slides up Feuilly’s body, hovering just above his skin. “You just have to ask nicely, like a good boy, and I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for days.”

He kisses Feuilly hot and slow, a promise, a temptation, because Feuilly knows he could do it, _wants_ him to. Bahorel’s tongue slides deeper, hips rocking into the cradle of Feuilly’s own –

And yelps when Feuilly bites down, hard enough to taste blood.

“You gingery motherfucker!”

He releases Feuilly’s knee to grab at his arms, anticipating (rightly) a punch, but Feuilly’s got the upper hand now. He rears up, knocking his head under Bahorel’s chin hard enough to feel teeth clatter, and gets his knees around Bahorel’s ribs to roll him over. Feuilly ignores Bahorel’s swearing, straddling his hips triumphantly and reaching for the discarded lube. Suddenly, Bahorel isn’t complaining as Feuilly slicks his hand and reaches back to guide him inside, hot and stretching and _godyes_. Bahorel’s hands are on Feuilly’s hips and he’s groaning, rolling his hips up as he pulls Feuilly down. It’s good, it’s _so_ good, what he wanted but –

Feuilly stops, ass flush with Bahorel’s hips. Bahorel moans and tries to urge Feuilly on but he’s immovable, all his weight settled into the body below him.

“ _Feuilly_ ,” he whines, and Feuilly grins.

“Now who has to ask nicely?”

Which leaves Bahorel no choice other than to bring his legs up and roll them again, Feuilly shouting obscenities the whole while. He gets a firm grip on Feuilly’s hips and guides himself back in, rolling down in torturously slow thrusts.

“That would still be you, if you want it any faster. I could fuck you like this for _days_.”

And it’s too slow for either for them but fuck if it isn’t true, that Bahorel could stay right here forever if Feuilly would let him, buried in hot skin and fierce eyes and that fucking sinful mouth, still shouting obscenities at him.

“You fucking overgrown ape, for god sake you sack of shit, I swear I will find you in the night _I know where you live-”_

Feuilly keeps running his pretty mouth off, so Bahorel slips two fingers past those bitten red lips to shut him up. Feuilly sucks them down eagerly, dragging them in knuckle-deep before biting down. Hard.

He has a thing about biting; Bahorel _loves_ it.

“You little shit,” he hisses, pulling his fingers back. Feuilly grins at him, feral.

Bahorel slides his hand around the pale expanse of throat instead, gets his fingers in the soft hollow just under the bone, Feuilly’s eyes bright and fixed on his. They’ve never done this before but when he squeezes gently Feuilly arches off the bed with a sound he can feel under his hand and _oh_ _that’s good_. Feuilly’s got one hand gripping Bahorel’s bicep, the other fisted in the sheets, and the noises he’s making are fucking amazing. Bahorel has to taste those noises.

He slows down, hips moving in long, devastating thrusts that shift Feuilly up the bed on every one. He squeezes his hand again to remind Feuilly to behave (and a little to hear his rasping groan) as he licks into his mouth.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, biting at his lip. He laughs breathlessly into Feuilly’s mouth as the man rams the knuckles of his free hand into Bahorel’s side and growls, “I’m not pretty you cocksucker, now _fuck me._ ”

"Just say please."

"Fuck no you power-tripping motherfucker.” Feuilly twists his hips down, tries to get any leverage at all, but Bahorel just squeezes his fingers again and he moans breathlessly, “ _fuck_.”

Feuilly tries his best to push back against Bahorel’s maddeningly slow thrusts but he’s pinned, the hand on his throat and the pressure on his lungs blocking out anything that’s not the sound of blood in his ears and the feel of Bahorel, Bahorel everywhere, Bahorel hot and _fuck –_

It’s too much of a struggle just to breathe. He yields with a frustrated, “ _god’s sake_.”

Feuilly’s surrender goes straight to Bahorel’s cock. Power isn’t really his thing, not for its own sake, but this is _Feuilly_ ; Feuilly, who never stops fighting him for a single damn thing, Feuilly who gets kicked around by the world and who gives as good as he gets, who fights and smokes and drinks and fucks as fierce as he lives. _His_ fucking Feuilly _yielding_ and it’s too much, he’s too fucking hot like this, and Bahorel can’t help but give him everything.

Bahorel gets his arms under him, bracketing Feuilly’s shoulders to hold him in place as he fucks into him as hard as they both want. They’re not quiet. By now the neighbors have given up trying to complain – something about Bahorel answering their indignant knocking at the door stark naked and covered in blood from Feuilly head butting him – and Feuilly gives exactly zero fucks about the noise as he slams a hand into the wall to brace himself. Bahorel gets Feuilly’s leg over his shoulder, driving down relentlessly until Feuilly shouts.

Bahorel sinks his teeth into Feuilly’s thigh as he comes, Feuilly’s nails digging red trails down his shoulder as he hisses, “don’t you dare stop, you motherfucker, I swear to god –“

So Bahorel gets a hand between them and fists him fast and rough, swallowing his shout as he finishes hot and messy between them.

After that it’s a mammoth effort just to slide carefully out of Feuilly’s boneless body, and Feuilly barely has enough energy to grunt in protest as Bahorel collapses heavily on his chest. He eases his legs down and lets his arms flop uselessly at his sides, waiting for his bloodstream to resume its usual flow of oxygen, too tired to even consider getting up to find his pack. Bahorel tucks his face into the damp hair at the base of Feuilly’s neck and they don’t do anything but lie like that for a while, eyes closed and breathing together, before his human pillow starts squirming.

“Get off me you fucking brick shithouse.”

Bahorel just smiles into damp ginger hair and snakes his arms under Feuilly’s waist in a loose hold, quite content to stay there all night.

“Say please.”

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to find me on tumblr, I'm lurking around [ambiguous-eyepatch](http://ambiguous-eyepatch.tumblr.com).


End file.
